In brief: a Submissive Dominant is an animal powerful enough to resist—but which nevertheless consents to—its own subjugation. A classic example can be explored here.

Case in point, this pig. He could rampage through Sheepshead Bay kaiju-style, leaving carnage and bloodshed in his wake. He could fill the people with a fear so toxic it would haunt their hearts forever. Or, he could walk away from the monstrous grill constructed for him. But he doesn't.

He just hunkers down, a bemused smile on his face, comfortable in the knowledge that his cooked flesh will feed many.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Fredericksburg, VA. The Chick-Fil-A fast-food restaurant chain's cow mascot, a longtime supporter of the consumption of chickens, was knocked to the ground by an unknown shover. While not a true adherent of the suicidefoodist movement, the cow nevertheless worked closely with the purveyors of "food" animals. Police have no suspect or motive.

The Paisano gives us the perfect opportunity to discuss one of the suicidefoodists' most endearing gambits: The Shrug.

Look at el pollo. Doesn't his stance fill you with fond feelings? Can't you feel your misgivings melt away like so much cotton candy? Where were we? And what were we talking about, anyway?

It's The Shrug! The Shrug works like a sly magic upon the massed forces of rationality.

The Shrug serves to highlight not the animals' powerlessness—although we don't like seeing ourselves as tyrants—but their apathy. And if they can't be bothered to flee, object, or even care, surely we are off the hook.

The Shrug tells the tale of cheerfully abided resignation. The chicken's response to destruction: Oh well!

So, shrugging at the dismal, vicious fate that awaits them—shrugging, that is, instead of attempting to avoid it—they saunter to their death. And we watch them go, somehow believing there was nothing anyone could have done. The Shrug told us everything we needed to know about life, its purpose and possibilities, its perils and promise.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

It's a secret so horrifying that the only medium hideous enough for it is the sign of a barbecue restaurant.

"This is why we never run out of bar-b-cue. Because we are constantly in rut, and the offspring that result—we like to call them by-products—are intended for you to eat."

A more effective argument for abstinence, or at least birth control, we can hardly imagine. (Although this is equally convincing.)

Do you see how the sow is transported, while the boar shoots us a knowing glance? It's the timeless dance of male and female essence, performed by pigs. That they play their parts knowing the outcome—confiscated and murdered children—is enough to sour us on love.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

True, the royal readerboard, record of the bards, announces the king's fate:

Killed Jumbo.

Verily was King Jumbo slain, struck down by a foe whose identity has been lost to the ceaseless waves.

But dry your eyes! The soaring songs are yet sung! Though the sign be weathered, its paint peeling, its greatness consigned to memory, the legend lives!

Recall him as though he still stands atop the waters. His trident, the blunted symbol of his meekness! His grin, the invitation to any and all to slaughter his entire people! His crown, frivolous trinket denoting nothing! Hand on hip in wan mockery of righteous anger!

Friday, February 20, 2009

In between visits to the kitchen, she trades snappy repartee with the customers.

Think you're all that? She'll cut you down to size with a wink and her quick wit.

Complain that your meat is overdone or your eggs over-runny, your fried chicken too hot or not hot enough, and she'll be there to tell you what's what.

Yes, sir—she's a tough old bird. Until you look deeper. For then you'll see the real Miss Polly, the aura of down-home wisdom she radiates. Her no-nonsense philosophy is imprinted on her heart: Love, Peace, and Chicken Grease. It's more than an erudite rhyme—it's a whole mindset. A potent summing-up of life's most basic needs.

And Miss Polly dares you to find something strange about a chicken including the ingestion of chicken fat among the essentials of a happy existence. Mention it and you'll get a smart rap across the knuckles with that spoon of hers.

No, better to keep eating. And if you set down that drumstick without gnawing off every last scrap, Miss Polly will have something to say about it.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Way down in old Buenos Aires, travelers craving luxury might rendezvous at Cabaña Las Lilas, a famed beefhouse in this beefiest of cities.

If you were to order a steak, as is required by law there, you would be served a succulent slab. Perched atop the steaming hunk, you would find a charming little fellow.

See him there?

While we don't understand the purpose of the wee signpost—do they suppose you might have forgotten what you ordered or where you ordered it?—we can't but admire the cow's spirit.

"It is I!" he seems to declare. "I am here and you will eat me!"

Here, in this temple dedicated to the indelible, edible memory of the once-alive, he has found his proper place at last. Here, he is sophistication itself. No more the merely cute, now he is memorialized!

"Estoy jugoso," he squeaks. I am juicy.

Even left behind, indigestible, floating in a cloud of his, um, juice, he has made the journey worthwhile.

Yes, little dead cow. You are very, very juicy indeed.

(Thanks to Dr. Marie Fromage for the first photo, to Dr. ddanzig for the second, and to Dr. Mixirica and her Buenos Aires flickr set for the third.)

Monday, February 16, 2009

While we can't know whether this alluring bird is a showgirl, chanteuse, or madam, we can say that she is another proud spokesthing for a movement bent on retribution.

(Nothing is so bizarre that the suicidefoodists won't try it. Repeatedly. That's right: this is not the first "flamboyant" avian we've seen!)

Unnatural objects of desire must be punished. Only by consigning them to the flames can the suicidefoodists' guilt be destroyed. At least until the next livestock vixen or naughty hamburger comes along. And so this sexy creature—this smokin' chick—will be sacrificed. For their sins.

Her bustline, her hourglass shape, her gaze like that of the haughty houri. They stir within the suicidefoodists things that throw their psyches into turmoil. To restore equilibrium, they are forced to eradicate her.

And while the double meaning of chick is blatant, note also the various senses of smoking: erotically charged (of course), cooking or curing by means of smoke (yes, yes), and murdering.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Another food-based officer of the peace who is not up to the rigors of his occupation.

Lovestruck, he walks the beat. His mind is a million miles away. He should be keeping an eye out for punks boosting car radios and drug buys going down, but he's thinking about… love.

This hapless public servant is already servant to his heart. Which he is eating. For his valentine's benefit. (Have we been living under an affection-starved rock? Is "eating your heart out" an expression of love as well as envy now?)

Anyway, he's an ambulatory hamburger. Whatever heart he has is from the ground remains of a hundred different cows. We suppose this is really just testament to the desire, the sheer bull-headed drive, that some undead food has. Once killed, they strive to discover ever more absurd ways to sacrifice themselves.

Bonus! They're not suicide food, but these meat-related valentines are no less inappropriate:

Thursday, February 12, 2009

The Porkers pig laughs in the face of death! He scoffs at pain, sneers at humiliation!

The spit is his hammock and, lounging cross-ankled, he regards you with cool contempt.

His will is steel and his heart is granite.

No matter what you do to him—no matter the flames, the skewers, the tongs—he will not squeal!

Okay, okay! We get it. The Porkers pig is a tough bastard. He is the G. Gordon Liddy of "food" animals!

What we don't get is where appetite stimulation enters this picture. Is it that we are meant to be happy besting such a mean mother? Even though as soon as he is eaten, he wins and we become his bitch? For that is how he will prove his dominance, by submitting to the very worst that humanity can dish out.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Those snooty lobsters. Think they're better than everyone, walking around with their "noses" in the air, feelers waving dismissively.

Do they even say "Hello" as they pass? Yeah, right. They keep on walking, eyes closed. They won't even acknowledge you, you know? Like you're not even good enough to be in the same room with them, breathing the same precious oxygen. Their damn top hats just hanging on for dear life.

There they go, holding those walking sticks that probably cost more than a month's rent for that crummy closet you call home.

Clutching their champagnes, muttering about the markets, they pass by like every boss who ever made you feel two feet tall.

All because they can hop into pots of boiling water and cook themselves from the inside out.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Every 50 posts, we visit the slums of Suicidefood City. There's something so… real about life there. In the glitzy downtown, with its glittering high-rises, we sweat beneath a coating of sweet-smelling lies. The animals love us for our gluttony. They admire us for our greed. They envy us for our certainty.

But not today! Today is for gritty reality. For hatred! For the latest in our Festival of Cruelty series, where the too-easy deceptions of suicidefoodism are cast off and shredded into bits the size and shape of teardrops. (Catch up with the previous installment.)

Berger's Deli Hot Wings: Get it? Hot wings? And the poor chicken's plucked wings are currently on fire? And the chicken writhes in agony, calling out to an unseeing universe devoid of justice? Now that's good punning. And responsible stewardship of the earth. Bonus: The tortured chicken's wings come with a can of soda and cilantro! All for only… $750?! (Thanks to Dr. Seth for the photo.)

Smokin' Our Butts Off BBQ: This pig tends the grill with such stalwart determination that even when his entire backside falls off, he keeps on working. Through the pain, through the horror. A tiny tear, his only offering in the name of the awful sacrifice he has made. Notice also that he has become a creature of smoke, his soul having been transferred to the dark church of his masters. Where blood should be, where flesh should be: only smoke. Is he even alive? Has he already died? Is he tending the fires of Hell, heaping upon them the bodies of those he loved in life?

Hogs 'N Heat BBQ Team: Flavor? Technique? These are not the bywords of true barbecuers. These don't spell success! The trick, the secret ingredient—the blessed spice!—is suffering. And how the hogs suffer! Here we see them, having surrendered to their fate. Their lives drain from them one drip at a time. Rescue, respite, recourse? What is the sound that gently echoes throughout this smothering, flame-ridden realm? Laughter.

Smokin' Carnivores BBQ Team: Hey, as long as the livestock is put to panicked flight and something gets to eat them. That's still a win, right? Oh, by the way, the competitive barbecuers now see themselves as murderous dinosaurs.

Dillard Door & Entrance Control Security Smokers: Forced to take to the streets, pursued by madmen with sharp barbecue implements, the pigs race into the unknown. Who is worse: the yahoo goading them on, or the cretin in the lead, making a sport of the pigs' terror?

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Diagnosis

What is Suicide Food? Suicide Food is any depiction of animals that act as though they wish to be consumed. Suicide Food actively participates in or celebrates its own demise. Suicide Food identifies with the oppressor. Suicide Food is a bellwether of our decadent society. Suicide Food says, “Hey! Come on! Eating meat is without any ethical ramifications! See, Mr. Greenjeans? The animals aren’t complaining! So what's your problem?” Suicide Food is not funny.